


Where Is Thy Sting

by Wallwalker



Category: Valkyrie Profile 2: Silmeria
Genre: Community: bloodyvalentine, Dubious Consent, Execution, F/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallwalker/pseuds/Wallwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hrist's punishments are losing their sting, and their savor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Is Thy Sting

"I would not have to do this if you would learn to mind your master," Hrist says as haughtily as she can manage, as she ties the blindfold over his eyes. "If only you would -"

"What? Bow and snivel like a good little slave?" Arngrim sneers. "You'd do this anyway, you bitch. You're enjoying this."

"Don't be foolish," she snaps quickly, fiercely.

Too quick and he knows it, and this time his smile is almost real. "Why not? You're already going to do your worst. What else can you do to me?"

She gives up the debate; she already knows there is no satisfactory way to win. Instead she pulls him back by his hair and stuffs the gag into his mouth; he takes it surprisingly easily. He's tired of protesting, perhaps, tired of going through those motions. 

Hrist has brought him to these bloody mountains, where ancient wars have claimed so many; these mountains are legendary for the amount of blood that stains them. The day is perfect for what she has in mind, the sky overcast and threatening a storm that has not yet emerged. A few weeks ago, it would have been the most perfect atmosphere. Now... she looks down at Arngrim and sighs, very quietly, so that he does not hear. 

She takes her black halberd in her hands; it only seems appropriate, doing this once again with the same weapon with which she impressed him into her service. The sword would perhaps be easier, but she is not one to take the easy way out, or she would have allowed Silmeria to have Arngrim anyway. It certainly would have caused her less headache. 

He's stopped struggling, she notices. Before he struggled, fought, terror and rage in his every motion even though he knew it was completely futile; any mortal who claims not to fear death is proven a liar when he faces what he believes is the end, because he did not know that she would bring him back. There were other times when Hrist had to bind him completely, wrists to ankles, before she could finish this, because his struggles had been too great; there had been blood everywhere, so much blood from superficial wounds. She could even remember the first time, and with particular fondness; she had kept his eyes uncovered, and the rage and hatred in them had been delicious. 

Perhaps, she admits to herself, she's done this once too often, allowed herself to be carried away by the pain and the blood and the fear. Perhaps she should have used more... subtle deterrents. She looks at the way that Arngrim waits for it now - calm, unafraid, craining his neck and waiting, and if she had not gagged him he most likely would have been griping at her to _get it over with, already._ It cools her blood, and she hates him a little more for it, though the hate is mingled with admiration and desire; even then, only a strong man could accept what she gives so easily.

Either way, she is committed to this now; she cannot threaten this to him and then fail to follow through. "Arngrim," she begins, then pauses. No, she decides. No speeches this time. She has given them before, enjoying the sound of the old rituals in her voice and the fear and panic that they inspired. But now he does not react, and she has grown tired of them. Best to cut to the chase.

The halberd drops, and Arngrim's head is knocked away by the force, bouncing across the rocky ground. It takes his body a moment to slump impudently to the ground - no convulsions this time, no release of pent-up fear, just a loud, heavy scraping against the earth.

She sighs now, at least - he can no longer see her - and goes to retrieve his head. It is sitting at the edge of a large rock, waiting for her, and she knots her fingers through its hair and lifts it up, ignoring the blood that drips from it - the novelty is gone, past gone, and it is only sick curiosity that makes her turn the head around to see his face. 

Even his dying smile, through the gag, is easy and impudent. She strips off the blindfold, and the smile has even extended to his eyes - they are wide open, and they are staring straight ahead. _See?_ she hears his voice mocking him. _I'm not afraid of anything you can do anymore, Hrist. I know how you do things now._

Anger fills her up to the top, so much so quickly that she's afraid she's going to be sick, and she _hates_ Arngrim for revealing that weakness in her soul. She throws the head away from her with a bit more force than she had intended; fortunately she hits her mark, reuniting the head with its body, knocking even his massive frame over with the force of her throw. As soon as it strikes his body dematerializes, dissolving in a storm of divine light and floating black feathers, floating away until nothing is left but the spatter of blood; she takes it within herself once again, takes what is essentially Arngrim into her own soul. Later, when she needs him again, she will release him into her service once more. For now, she will let him wait.

She sits down on a particularly large rock, shaking her head. Arngrim had been right about one thing; she _had_ enjoyed this, once. But this time... this time she wanted nothing, only to rest for a little while longer. Death had lost its sting; she could feel Arngrim in her head again, waiting for her to bring him back to her side. Because he knows that she must, because he is her only einherjar, he feels no fear. He does not wonder if his death had truly been the end, not in the way he had before.

She has brought this on herself, she thinks, and whatever heat she might have felt - because there had been that, the other times, and she had once done this for no reason than to please herself - has faded. If she wishes to punish Arngrim further, or to please herself further, she will have to find another way.

 _Enough of this._ She stands up, shaking off the last of the self-pity. She cannot be consumed by these things. She has a job to do, by divine appointment, and it is time to do it. She can devise new punishments and new games later.

She gracefully flies off into the sky, leaves the blood-stained mountains behind.


End file.
